


Unspoken Ethic

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Mentalist
Genre: American!Harry, Carny!Harry, Con Artist!Harry, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentalist!Harry, Pre-Mentalist, Roundabout Prophecy Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Petunia has no interest in her freak of a sister's son, and so she passes him off to the only family she can think of that's still alive— family that's far, far away from her normal life on Privet Drive.Harry Potter disappears and a new boy takes his place, a boy with the best big brother in the world, surrounded by the bright lights and faded rainbow tents of the carnival. He grows up happy, he grows up loved, and he grows up knowing the basics of a good scam. The Wizarding World isn't going to stand a chance.(Knowledge of the Mentalist universe is unnecessary)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I binge-watched the Mentalist and I'm on one hell of a Harry Potter kick. I've got eight or so chapters, so I figured I may as well post and see how it goes!

The English lady doesn’t look like she belongs within a hundred miles of a carnival, for all that Patrick’s father says she family. He hears them arguing through the door, storing away phrases like _ Lily’s son  _ and _ you’re her family too  _ and _ I’m not keeping the little freak  _ to analyze for himself at a later date. Right now, he’s playing with the little boy that Patrick assumes to be ‘Lily’s Son’, keeping him occupied while the woman and Patrick’s father duke it out over cheap shine and meatloaf.

 

The little boy is beautiful, much like Patrick is himself for all that they look nothing alike. Patrick looks like his father, who looked like his father, who looked like his father before him, blond-haired and blue-eyed and tanned from long days putting up tents in summer fields. The boy, on the other hand, is paler than Patrick, with a risen white scar that sort of looks like a lightning bolt peeking out from under inky-black curls and mesmerizing green eyes that seem to see more than Patrick would like as he makes a quarter disappear and reappear before his eyes. Regardless, he proves to be a polite audience, clapping his hands and smiling up at Patrick whenever their eyes meet.

 

Time passes, and soon it’s time for dinner. His father shows no signs of coming out, so Patrick bundles the little boy up into his arms and takes him to the cookhouse. He’s lucky— it’s potatoes and gravy today, something that the little boy appears to be content with when he offers him a bite from his own spoon.

 

Babies are messy eaters, Patrick quickly finds out. The others laugh at his efforts to keep from being totally covered by drooly potato bits, but Lola gets him an extra napkin, and Pete teaches him the airplane trick, so it turns out alright. It isn’t until they’re all finished up that Patrick’s father shows up, quietly fuming as he marches up to Patrick and the boy.

 

“Take him to Grandma’s,” he orders. “She’s gotta name ‘im.”

 

Patrick blinks.

 

“We— what?”

 

Alex huffs an irritated sigh.

 

_ “That—” _ he nods at the little boy currently clinging to Patrick’s shirt. “Is your little cousin. His mom’s dead, so we’ve got him now.”

 

“He didn’t come with a name?” Patrick asks, frowning. “Was his mom Old-Style, or what?”

 

Alex snorts.

 

“She was out of the family tales, if rumors are to be believed,” he says. “But no, Tuney just wasn’t feelin’ up to givin’ me his name. Go— the sooner we sort this out the quicker we can figure out exactly what the hell to do with him. God knows I didn’t want another kid.”

 

Patrick doesn’t take offense to the comment— his dad was always pretty clear about where he stood when it came to kids— and makes his way over to Grandma Ingrid’s.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Oh, that boy’s got magic in him, he does.” Grandma Ingrid puffs her cigar happily. “There ain’t been no Janes with the gift since my Grandaddy, you know.”

 

Grandpa Bogue was a magician, part of the reason the Jane name was as famous as it was in carny circles. The real deal too, according to Grandma, but then, Grandma’s always been a little nutty.

 

“He’s gonna need a strong name,” she says, taking the little boy by the chin and turning his face up to hers. “An unusual name. That’s how them magic folks are. They always need something  _ unusual.” _

 

She clicks her tongue thoughtfully.

 

“Grindell,” she says after a moment. “Like my Granddaddy. Grindell… Grindell Jane… Grindell  _ Ares  _ Jane, yes, I think that’ll suit just fine.” She presses a kiss to the boy’s— Grindell’s— cheek. “I’m getting the feeling you’re gonna need to be a warrior, someday. You’re gonna make people  _ bleed.” _

 

Grindell giggles at her, tangling pudgy baby hands in her necklaces and tugging gently.

 

“Yeah, that’ll do ya,” she says. “That’ll do just fine. Patty, have you got room for him in your Daddy’s trailer?”

 

“Uh— yeah, I guess.” Patrick’s bed is big enough for two, provided one is substantially smaller than the other.

 

Ingrid nods.

 

“I’ll take him whenever you boys are working,” she says. “He’s going to need lessons, anyway.”

 

“Lessons in what?” Patrick never got lessons from Grandma, not after he learned his ABCs along with the rest of the traveling kids.

 

She smiles.

 

“Them’s with magic got a whole other culture beyond ours,” she says. “He’s gonna have to know which way’s up if he’s gonna take ‘em for all they’re worth.”

 

Yeah, Grandma’s crazy, but at least she means well. At the very least, Grindell’s gonna have some good stories to tell later down the line.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Grindell’s fussy, that first night in the trailer. Patrick supposes he’s lucky— Alex is off playing tag with the gadgets on the other side of the tents, so he’s not around to get angry. Grindell already got off on the wrong foot with his new guardian, just by daring to be handed over. It wouldn’t do to piss him off anymore than he already is.

 

Patrick cuddles his little cousin close to his chest, partly to calm him and partly due to the small drop that awaits him if he isn’t careful.

 

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” he murmurs. Running his fingers through Grindell’s wild black curls. “You need to sleep, Grin. We’ve got a big day tomorrow morning.”

 

Patrick has to introduce him to everybody, after all. It’s tradition, when it comes to kids born to carnies. It’s a power move and a bonding experience rolled into one.

 

Grindell cries harder, little hands fisted into the blanket wrapped Patrick threw over them both. He wants his mother, probably. Babies always want their mothers.

 

Her name was Lily. His father had never mentioned a cousin Lily before, but based on how Patrick hasn’t seen him since dinner he’s not happy to hear she’s dead. He wonders if Grin takes after her, if it’s her sparkling green eyes that are filling up with tears despite Patrick’s best efforts.

 

Lily, Lily… he knows a song about a Lily. It’s probably not a good song for a little boy to know, but Grin’s little, and Patrick doubts he’ll remember.

 

_ “Lily was a princess, she was fair-skinned and precious as a child,”  _ Patrick starts lowly.  _ “She did whatever she had to do, she had that certain flash every time she smiled…” _

 

Grin’s cries slow into wet, sniffling gasps as he burrows even further into Patrick’s chest. Patrick lets him, rubbing circles into his back with his thumb, counting the beats of his heart until they slow and settle into the restfulness of a toddler’s sleep.

 

Careful not to wake him, Patrick turns onto his back, relaxing into the thin mattress of his cot.

 

He gets the feeling this might become a trend very quickly if he’s not careful.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Carnies always love a baby. It’s a new member to welcome into the fold, somebody upon which to impart trade secrets and wisdom without fear of retribution. Patrick’s people are showmen, and they always love a new audience.

 

Things settle into a routine after a month or so. Patrick keeps Grin out of his father’s way during the day, makes sure he’s fed and clothed and entertained and _ learning,  _ always learning. He won’t make it far in the business without a steady foundation, after all.

 

In the evenings, he goes to Grandma Ingrid. Sometimes she takes him out onto the lot, but most nights, they stay in, and she tells him stories and reads from books that Patrick doesn’t remember ever seeing before. It’s all nonsense, of course, about wizards and goblins and the wars they have, but Grin always sits still for her when she talks, enraptured.

 

Patrick has a strong suspicion that he just likes Grandma’s voice, smoky and musical as it is.

 

By six months, it’s like Grin was always there, hanging from Daisy’s trunk under Pete’s watchful eyes or toddling after Midge the Dwarf, babbling happily as she passes him apple slices between puffs of her cigarette. As if he was always there, he blends into the background noise of carny life.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Patrick’s not sure when Grin stops being his cousin and starts being his brother, but it happens. It happens between a four year old’s fumbled tarot card predictions and careful lessons about the rules of poker. It happens between a six year old’s pickpocketing practice and games of Three Card Monte and the differences between marks and People Who Know. 

 

By the time Patrick realizes it, it’s too late. Grin’s his now, as much as a person can be anybody’s, and nobody, _ nobody  _ is going to take his little brother away from him.

 

Not that anyone tries, of course. Alex doesn’t care much for Grindell, though he’ll crack a smile when the little boy manages to perfect a new trick or successfully snags a few wallets. Grin’s got the perfect face to play little lost boy, complete with crocodile tears and a cotton candy blue stain around his mouth to match. Patrick taught him that scam himself, and even with all his own problems regarding marks he can’t help but puff up just a little every time he comes home to find wallets and money clips dumped on their shared bed. Money is how he teaches Grin basic math, counting out ones and fives and tens and twenties on the pillow between them.

 

Patrick lets Grin grow his hair out. Little lost boy scams work even better when it’s a little lost girl, provided you find the right mark, and Grin doesn’t mind donning the occasional dress if it means he can show off a little. Patrick outgrew that window quickly, too rough and tumble with his cousins to really play the part, but Grin is proving to be a waifish kind of kid, with a delicate bone structure and big puppy eyes. Patrick combs those long, wild curls every morning, pulling them back into tight braids so they stay out of the way when he goes to lend a hand in the cookhouse or shovel shit with the other kids too small to be of any real use.

 

“How about the lady over there?” Patrick asks, leaning against the candy apple stand. “The lady in the blue jacket, what do you see?”

 

Grin’s mouth pinches with concentration as he turns all of his attention onto the woman.

 

“She’s older, forties,” he says after a moment. “There’s a tan line on her ring finger so… divorced? Or separated. It’s new.”

 

Patrick hums encouragingly.

 

“Go on,” he says.

 

“Um…” Grin stares harder. Patrick will have to train that out of him, but not yet. He’s still learning. “Kids, I think. Boys? Younger, though. She’s got a Little League shirt on.”

 

“How many?”

 

Grin pauses.

 

“At least two,” he says. “She’s too tired for just one.”

 

“That could be anything,” Patrick says. “She could be stressed from her divorce, or work, or her new lover.”

 

“New lover?” Grin knows what lovers are. They’re people who do adult things together.

 

Patrick nods.

 

“Her makeup’s impeccable despite the heat,” he says. “And her hair’s done, too. Do me a favor and take a look at her nails, would you?”

 

Grin pauses.

 

“Short,” he says. “But neat. Lady lover?”

 

“Got it in one.” On cue, a curvy redhead steps into view, smiling brightly as she hands over tickets for the rides. They don’t touch, but there’s… something. Intimacy, is the word Grin knows for it. Sexual tension is what Patrick would say, because it’s more correct, but he’s not ready to have the Talk just yet.

 

“So…” Grin’s brow furrows. “She probably got divorced because she didn’t like guy lovers, right? But she’s still uncomfortable… maybe she’s stressed about her kids being angry?”

 

“Maybe even the whole family,” Patrick says.

 

“People are mean,” Grin says. “Why do they care if she has a lady lover?”

 

“People are very, very stupid,” Patrick tells him soberly. “And we carnies just have to live with it. Now, what’s the most important question I’m going to ask next?”

 

Grin blinks.

 

“She has money,” he says, because he’s a very good guesser. “Her nails are professionally done, and her purse is really fancy.”

 

“Good job.” Patrick ruffles his little brother’s hair. “Let’s go get you dolled up and you can go say hi, huh? Moms are always especially nice to pretty girls.”

 

Grin shoves his thigh.

 

“Not a girl,” he says. “Just a good carny.”

 

“Something we all strive for,” Patrick agrees. “Come on, before she sees us.”


	2. Chapter 2

It isn’t unusual for Patrick to get smacked around every once in a while. His dad can be mean when he wants to be, and a smart-mouthed kid’s an easy target. Normally, Patrick can catch when it’s coming, and hustles Grin off to Grandma’s trailer before the storm hits, but this time— this time he doesn’t.

 

Alex is always careful not to get his face too bad. He goes for the top of his head, his chest, his ribs. It hurts, it always hurts, but Alex has never been much of a fighter for all that he looks like one, and he has yet to break anything important. Bruise, yes, crack, yes, but never break. Patrick can appreciate his luck when he has it.

 

Unfortunately, luck isn’t with him today, because Grin is curled up in the corner of the kitchen booth, eyes wide and scared and God, Patrick never wants to see that look on his face again.

 

So he fights back.

 

The first punch surprises Alex more than anything, a sucker punch to the gut when he rears back to regain momentum. His reflexes are good though, based on the sudden ache that blooms in his ribs.

 

Grin screams like the devil’s own, high and shrill and piercing. It startles Alex, the suddenness of it all, and a moment later, the trailer goes dark.

 

Correction: it isn’t the trailer that goes dark, it’s the entire goddamn fairground. Everything, from the christmas lights to the goddamn ferris wheel goes dark, plunging the entire lot into darkness.

 

His father is stunned, drunk with booze and adrenaline and surprise. Patrick takes his chances, scrambling to his feet and pushing his father out into the road. He shuts the door, careless of his father’s angry yelp, snatching the Masterlock from the counter and locking the door the only way he knows can’t be picked.

 

Then he backs up.

 

Alex pounds on the door and screams for all of five minutes before shuffling away into the night as Patrick shakes against the kitchen table. He can’t breathe, God, he can’t breathe, and he can taste blood in his mouth. His father broke something this time, Patrick can feel it with every gasp. He probably punctured a lung.

 

Patrick’s going to die. He’s going to die in a shitty trailer choking on his blood in front of—

 

Oh, God, _ Grin. _

 

“Grin, go into the bedroom,” he manages, keeping his face turned away.

 

“No.”

 

“Grin, go into the bedroom and shut the door.”

 

“No!” Slender, shaking fingers tug at his sleeve, begging him without words to look, for God’s sake,  _ please? _

 

Patrick can’t. He can’t bring himself to look, to see what he’s leaving behind.

 

“Grin, please,” he says. “Go to the bedroom, shut the door, and wait ‘til tomorrow.”

 

“Patty—”

 

“I’m not going to let—” Patrick’s mouth snaps shut. He can’t say that, not to a kid. He can’t say he’s going to die, no matter how true it is. “Grin, listen to me, please—”

 

A pained grunt escapes as his little brother launches himself over the table, arms snaking around his middle and squeezing, _ squeezing— _

 

There is no pain. There is only the slight discomfort of Patrick’s buttons digging into the soft flesh of his stomach and the feeling of hot, frightened tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. Frowning, Patrick presses a hand to his ribs. There’s nothing, not the slightest twinge. He’s breathing fine, too— in fact, the only hint that he didn’t just hallucinate the last few minutes is the fact that the trailer’s still dark and there’s blood in Patrick’s mouth.

 

“Grin,” Patrick says carefully. “Grin, what did you do?”

 

Grindell sniffles.

 

“I don’t want you to hurt, Patty,” he says, muffling his words in Patrick’s back. “Why was Uncle Alex hitting you?”

 

Patrick shifts, wrapping an arm comforting around Grin’s shoulders.

 

“People can be very, very stupid,” he says.

 

“But Uncle Alex is a carny,” Grin says. “We’re better than that.”

 

Patrick snorts and presses a kiss into his hair.

 

“Even carnies can be stupid,” he says. “... Grin, can I ask you to do something?”

 

Patrick has a hunch, an impossible hunch. But there’s evidence for it, and he needs to know.

 

“What?”

 

“Can you turn the lights back on?”

 

Grin goes very, very still.

 

“I didn’t turn them off,” he mutters. Patrick feels more than sees him look away.

 

“I can’t even see your face and I know you’re lying,” he says, doing his best to hide the fact that he is _ freaking  _ the fuck out right now. “Come on, Grin. You turned ‘em off, you can turn ‘em back on.”

 

A pause.

 

“... Grandma says I’m not supposed to do stuff like that in front of anybody,” Grin finally admits. “She says people without the gift aren’t supposed to know, and I’m not good enough yet to hide the real magic with the fake.”

 

Patrick’s stomach sinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive of Grandma Ingrid’s weird stories.

 

“I’m not anybody, Grin,” he says softly, fingers tightening in Grin’s shoulder. “I’m your brother, and I’m going to keep you safe. But you need to turn the lights on, you understand? Or else the fair’s gonna have a bad take, and you know how it gets when there’s a bad take.”

 

Cheese sandwiches and Fireball Shows. Not great.

 

“I don’t know if I can,” Grin says. “It was an accident. I wanted— I wanted Uncle Alex to stop, I wanted him to stop so _ bad—” _

 

“You fixed me,” Patrick adds. “Right? You fixed me.”

 

“I didn’t want you to hurt anymore,” he says. “You sounded like somebody was vacuuming a waterbed.”

 

That is… illustrative, though Patrick can’t for the life of him figure out why Grin would know what a waterbed even was, let alone what it sounded like being vacuumed. Regardless.

 

“It sounds like you have to want things to happen for it to work,” Patrick says. “So here’s the question: do you want to turn the lights back on?”

 

Grin shifts.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Nothing happens.

 

“Come on, Grin, try a little harder,” Patrick says. “Think of the lights— red, yellow, blue… think of the music that accompanies them, the buzzes of lost whack-a-mole games and water gun targets. Come on, Grin, you can do it.”

 

He’s picturing the look on his little brother’s face, eyes screwed up in concentration, mouth pinched with how hard he’s trying to remember exactly what the carnival looks in all its splendor.

 

There’s a flicker, and then another, and then, everything is light again.

 

Grin stares up at his brother, eyes uncertain even as he smiles.

 

“Good,” Patrick tells, sagging into the booth as exhaustion sinks into his muscles. “Very good, Grin. You’d do Grandpa Bogue proud, I expect.”

 

Grindell grins.

 

“Grandma Ingrid says so too,” he says.

 

“Well, Grandma’s a smart woman,” Patrick says. “Now, it’s past your bedtime, I think.”

 

“Aw, Patty—”

 

“No buts,” he says, smiling. “We’re leaving tomorrow, don’t forget. We can’t be sleeping late, no matter how interesting our evening was.”

 

Grin huffs but doesn’t arguing, choosing instead to cling to Patrick until he’s lifted out of the booth and carried into the bedroom. He’s getting bigger— he’s probably around seven now, eight on the outside. Patrick doesn’t know his birthday— the woman who’d brought him never bothered to mention— so they celebrate the anniversary of his arrival, careful to never mention a birthday.

 

Getting bigger doesn’t mean he’s all grown up, and once they settle under Patrick’s blankets, he falls asleep quickly, little snores punctuating each breath.

 

Patrick is going to have to talk to Grandma Ingrid, and it’s going to have to be soon. It appears Patrick’s understanding of the world needs to be reframed.

  
  


*.*

  
  


His father’s still pissed about getting locked out of the trailer, which is good, because that’s excuse enough to right with Grandma Ingrid in hers. She knows what he wants without him having to ask, which is good, because Patrick can’t quite bring himself to say ‘Hey Grandma, I know I pretend at being a psychic, but is magic real?’ on his own.

 

“Grindell Bogue was what his kind call a wizard,” she starts as the caravan starts to roll. Her pickup truck is roomy enough for all three of them— her, Patrick, and Grindell— to spread across the bench seat in the front. “He could do things no carny could manage, all with the flick of a wand. He even went to school for it. The wizards have their own schools, where they train their little ones how to use their gifts.”

 

“Grandpa Bogue disappeared when he was a kid,” Patrick says. He knows the story well. “Didn’t come back until he had a wife and kids on the circuit.”

 

Ingrid nods.

 

“The schools take ‘em at eleven,” Ingrid says. “The American school that Granddaddy went to was one of the tougher ones, never let the kids leave if they didn’t have gifted parents. If they’re the ones to offer Grin a place, we won’t see him again ‘til he’s seventeen, eighteen years old.”

 

Patrick’s grip on his brother’s waist— there aren’t any seatbelts in Grandma’s car— tightens at the thought.

 

“I don’t think he’s gonna be going to the American School,” Ingrid continues. “There’s some kind of a rule that has to do with where you’re born, and Grinny here ain’t from this country. He’ll go back to Britain, and _ they  _ let their kids go back to their normal parents for holidays ‘n’ such.”

 

“So they’re… boarding schools?”

 

Ingrid hums.

 

“They are,” she says. “And the English schools have yet to see any of our kin in their hallowed halls. My guess is that Grinny here’s gonna own the school before he’s thirteen.”

 

Patrick snorts, stomping down on the uncomfortable feeling building in his gut.

 

“I bet he’ll do it before he finishes out his first year,” he says.

 

Ingrid laughs.

 

“It’s a bet.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alex drops dead three days after Grindell’s eighth anniversary with the Janes. Heart attack, apparently. Patrick doesn’t really pay attention, too caught up on the black eye that Grindell seemingly developed the same night.

 

Grandma Ingrid noticed it too, noticed the same look in Grindell’s eyes as Patrick. She keeps her peace, though, and so does Patrick, because it’s easier that way.

 

Patrick is twenty years old and dukkering— fortune-telling. He’s doing it because his father was right— people don’t wanna see a Boy Wonder with stubble. It doesn’t make great money, but he does okay, with Grin acting as a barker and Angela, gorgeous Angela, acting as sex appeal. He’s not happy, but… no. He’s not happy, and it’s really that simple.

 

Angela knows he’s planning something, of course she does. She never got caught up in his games, never let his sly smiles sway her. He’s not surprised when she shows up at his trailer the night before his father’s funeral, suitcase packed for a long journey. She’s never liked their business much, either.

 

He’s going to marry her. As soon as she’s eighteen, he’s going to marry her.

 

The funeral is a quiet affair, even though the after party isn’t. Alex was never well-liked, but he was family, and family always deserves a party.

 

Patrick doubts anyone noticed when they pulled out of the lot, even with all the smoke the trailer coughs up. Grandma Ingrid will notice when she gets back to her trailer, of course, when she finds her books on magic missing and a note on her fridge, but she’ll understand. Ingrid has always understood.

 

Grin is humming quietly to himself at the table, entrenched in a coloring book that Angela had given him for his birthday. Despite what Patrick knows— and he knows, deep down inside his heart he _knows_ that what happened to his father wasn't in anyway natural— the sound is… comforting. Everything that’s good in his life is here, split between Angela and the ring that glitters on her finger and Grindell and his gifts. His frankly  _ terrifying  _ gifts, if Patrick’s completely honest.

 

He and Angela are going to have to teach him, which won’t be so hard, he thinks. He has Grandma’s books, and he has his own, hard won skills. They both have Grindell’s love, as all-encompassing as any nine year-old’s can be. Together, they can make it work. Together, they’ll be just fine.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Angela teaches them both Russian. Patrick, in turn, teaches her French. He and Grindell speak it already, and more languages mean more potential cons, more potential marks.

 

They settle in Sacramento, after a while. Patrick starts up a small shop doing psychic readings, unsure of what else to do, and it does well. In fact, it does _ very  _ well. Well enough that Angela can quit her job as a grocery store clerk within a few months of the shop’s opening and instead stays home— which is a good thing, because Grin… Grin doesn’t do too well in school.

 

“It’s not my fault Louisa’s mom is cheating on her,” he explains after the fourth call from the principal. “And why would she go for Mr. Clark, anyway? Out of all the second grade teachers, he’s the ugliest. And he drinks, too.”

 

Angela sighs.

 

“Yeah, well, Louisa doesn’t want to hear that sort of stuff,” she says patiently. “Most people don’t want to hear that sort of thing, if we’re being honest. It hurts them to know that their beliefs about the world around them are wrong.”

 

“But it’s the _ truth,”  _ Grin protests. “Don’t people care about the truth?”

 

Grindell’s a good boy, really. He has a strong sense of morality. He just needs to learn to use his morality less like a meat mallet.

 

“Well, think about Patty,” she says. “Patty sees even more than you do, most days. He knows everybody’s secrets, whether they want him to or not. But do you think his clients want to hear about how their husbands are actually sleeping with the pool boy or that their brother’s stealing from the family business? No. And if Patty were to tell them, they’d probably get really angry at him. Angry people don’t come back to psychics.”

 

Grin pouts, but there’s a thoughtful furrow to his brow, like he’s thinking over Angela’s reasoning.

 

“So… what do I do?”

 

“... Well, I bet Louisa’s gonna be really sad when you go to school tomorrow,” she says. “Why don’t you try and figure out a way to cheer her up? Maybe you can be friends.”

 

“Louisa’s nice,” Grin admits slowly. “And her Dad has lots of money. She said that he wants to take her and anybody else she wants to go to Disney World this summer. For a week.”

 

Angela nods encouragingly.

 

“If she’s your friend, maybe you can go to Disney with her,” she says. “Since me and Patty can’t afford to take you right now.” In a year or two, maybe, but not right now.

 

Grin hums.

 

“Okay,” he says. “How do I play it?”

 

“Remorseful,” Angela says. “Big-eyed and sad. Maybe make her an ‘I’m sorry’ card.”

 

“Okay.” Grin straightens. “Okay, I’ll try that. Are you gonna tell Patty I got in trouble?”

 

Angela laughs.

 

“I bet Patty’s going to know the moment you walk in the door,” she says. “But now you have a solution, so that’ll help a lot. Don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah…” Grindell grins and reaches out to squeeze Angela around the waist. “Thanks, Annie. You’re the best.”

 

“I aim to please,” she says. “Now come on— let’s go to lunch.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Louisa is a very nice girl, and her father— now in the process of divorcing her mother— is more than happy to take along her sweet little friend with the strange name and his family to Disney World with them. By the end of it all, Patrick has a new customer, and Angela has a new friend in Mr. Davis’ twenty year-old girlfriend Sarah.

 

“You’re getting there, kiddo,” Patrick says, ruffling his brother’s hair as they wander through Magic Kingdom. “You’re going to be something scary in a few years.”

 

Grin smiles brightly.

 

“The gifted folk aren’t going to know what hit them,” he promises.

 

Angela chokes on an overpriced ice cream cone on Grin’s other side. Yeah, she knows about that now, and has done what she’s always done when it came to Janes— she took it in stride.

 

“Betcha they’ve never seen a boy like you before,” she says as Patrick passes her a napkin to wipe her mouth. “Betcha they’re so wrapped up in the fact that they’re magic that they’ll take one look at a little mentalist boy and think he’s actually psychic.”

 

“There are real psychics in their world,” Patrick says. “They’re just not smart enough for the con.”

 

“Or they’re smart enough to stay away from normal people,” Grin says. “Normal people are pretty stupid, Patty.”

 

“Hey, you know we count as normal people too, now,” Angela says. “Or— mostly normal.”

 

“Yeah, but we’re _ educated,”  _ Grindell points out. “Most people aren’t.”

 

Angela glances at Patrick.

 

“He’s going to be insufferable,” she says. “Just like you.”

 

“What do you expect?” Patrick asks, grinning. “We’re Janes. It’s part of our act.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


When Grindell is nine Patrick takes him to a surgeon, who says that the scar on his forehead could be removed with minimal work. Conmen shouldn’t be overly recognizable, and a scar like that is definitely something to be remembered. Besides, neither Patrick nor Grin have ever liked it— to Grin, it was a reminder that life wasn’t always kind, and to Patrick it had always looked deliberate. The thought that someone would do such a thing to his little brother— to any baby— makes him seethe inside.

 

They both want it gone, and after a month, it is.


	4. Chapter 4

An American. A _ fucking  _ American. Severus hates it when that happens.

 

He’s a Muggleborn, obviously— otherwise Severus wouldn’t have had to get an International Portkey and visit the damn boy. A Muggleborn, an American, and likely a brat.

 

Most children were brats, if they weren’t properly trained. Even if they are, they tend to be brats anyway, because children have tiny brains that can’t manage to hold more than a single thought at any given time.

 

Severus hates children.

 

Still, it’s his turn, as Minerva had pointed out, and whether he likes it or not, he has to go and explain things to the parents of said Muggleborn. Since the boy was apparently born in Britain, he fell under Hogwarts jurisdiction, and Hogwarts didn’t hold with obliviating Muggle families.

 

He’s in Sacramento, California, dressed like a preacher and sweating in the summer sun despite the numerous cooling charms he’d cast before stepping out of his hotel room. The boy’s letter is tucked into his bigger-on-the-inside breast pocket for safekeeping, and as a handy tool for Severus himself. He takes it out now.

 

_ Mr. Grindell A. Jane,  _ it reads. _ The Third Bedroom on the Right. 1315 Fortune Road, Tahoe Park, Sacramento, California. _

 

Severus looks up at the house to doublecheck he’s right, because nothing’s more embarrassing than knocking on the wrong door on these sort of outings. Severus never did it himself, of course, but he’s heard stories.

 

He knocks on the door, three sharp raps, and steps back to wait.

 

“Just a second!” A woman calls through the door. There’s a scuffle of some kind, a scolding ‘behave!’ and then, the door opens, revealing an young, affable-looking blonde woman in an apron.

 

“Hello,” she greets. “Can I help you?”

 

“I’m looking for a Mr. Grindell Jane,” Severus says curtly. “Would happen to know when his guardian will be returning?” The woman can’t be older than twenty, meaning she’s either a babysitter or a nanny of some sort. Considering the boy’s age, she couldn’t possibly be his guardian.

 

“That would be me.”

 

Or Severus could be wrong.

 

He sighs.

 

“May I come in?” he asks. “I would like to talk to you about an educational opportunity that has likely not yet been explored by you or your husband.”

 

Something like realization dawns on the woman’s face, but Severus highly doubts that her guess is remotely correct. No matter— he’ll straighten everything out soon enough.

 

“Of course,” she says, stepping to one side. “I’m Angela Jane, by the way— would you like some tea?”

 

“Professor Severus Snape.” He holds out a hand for her to shake. “And tea would be welcome.”

 

She smiles at him prettily and shuts the door behind him before leading him into the kitchen, tugging at the strings of her apron as she goes.

 

“Grindell, come downstairs, someone’s here to see you!” she calls as they pass the staircase.

 

“In a minute!” A boy’s voice calls back. “I’ve nearly finished my plan for world domination!”

 

Angela shoots Severus a look and giggles.

 

“Yeah, you’re gonna need that plan soon,” she says. Turning to Severus, she smiles. “Would you prefer black tea, jasmine, or oolong?”

 

“Black, please.”

 

The woman nods and hustles him into the kitchen, setting the teapot on the stove and readying milk and sugar for them both.

 

“So,” she says. “English, middle-class… Surrey, maybe? Or somewhere nearby.”

 

Severus arches an eyebrow.

 

“Indeed,” he says. “Though I’m surprised you were able to pick that up. I thought all English accents sounded rather similar to Americans.”

 

Angela, rather than taking offence, laughs.

 

“I traveled a lot when I was a kid with my parents,” she says. “And Patrick— my husband, and Grindell’s older brother— has a handful of cousins that live out that way. I’m good with stuff like that.”

 

Smart woman. She’s going to be trouble, Severus can tell already.

 

“Annie, Pat called, he’s coming home early today— oh.”

 

Severus turns to find who he can only assume to be Grindell. His brother must be a hippie of some kind— no boy’s hair should be that long, especially considering the average eleven year-old boy’s hygiene habits.

 

“Grin, this is Professor Snape,” Angela says, waving the boy over with a smile. “He’s here to talk about _ previously unexplored educational opportunities.” _

 

Grindell’s mouth twitches, his brilliant green eyes sharp when they dart over to Severus.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Snape,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. “My big brother’s going to be here soon— you’ll probably want to talk to him if it’s about school.”

 

“Patrick takes a very active role in his brother’s education,” Angela adds, eyes sparkling as she pours out three cups of tea. “He works just up the road, so it won’t be long.”

 

Severus suppresses a sigh.

 

“Of course, Mrs. Jane,” he says. “I don’t mind at all.”

 

“Liar,” Grin says as he dumps three spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. “You’re a man that doesn’t like to waste time, and these sorts of personal introductions constitute as time-wasting, in your mind, don’t they?”

 

“Grin, stop it.”

 

“What?” Grin asks, arching an eyebrow at his sister-in-law. “It’s not like they’re going to deny me entry. What are they gonna do, let me continue as usual? That seems like a hazard to the International Statute of Secrecy, leaving an untrained wizard all willy-nilly among normal people.”

 

Severus pauses. As far as he’s aware, Mr. Jane is a Muggleborn, otherwise he wouldn’t have been sent out to collect him. So how does he…?

 

“Grinny, stop teasing the poor man, would you?”

 

A blond man in a light blue three-piece suit steps into the kitchen, smiling easily at Severus as he reaches out to shake his hand.

 

“Patrick Jane,” he says. “I guess you’re here to talk about wizards.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“You know, I should have seen this coming,” Patrick says after he reads over the letter. “Hogwarts, I mean.”

 

“Why would you?” Professor Snape asks. “We do our very best to hide our existence from the Muggle— Non-Magical— world.”

 

Patrick smiles.

 

“Oh, no reason, really,” he says. “Except I’m a psychic.”

 

Professor Snape’s face really is a delight, even if Angela does swat at his shoulder for teasing.

 

“... Right.” Professor Snape shifts. “So, your… psychic ability is why your family was aware of wizards, I suppose?”

 

“No, not at all.” Patrick chuckles. “We have a wizard on our grandmother’s side who left behind a lot of books to read through— that’s how we recognized Grindell’s abilities. He’s not quite so gifted as I am in the arts, of course, but he does have a touch of of the family sight, as well.”

 

“I make up for it with my other gifts,” Grin says without looking up from his school list. If he looks up, Patrick knows, he’ll lose it. He’s already pretty red. “Or I will, once I learn how to use them.”

 

Grindell is gonna have a ball with this guy, Patrick can tell already. 

  
  


*.*

  
  


Bullied in school and bitter about it. A follower. Smart, but not as smart as he thinks he is. Grew up poor, likely with an abusive parent, probably his father. His mother— dead, since he was a teenager, probably. Dislikes children, but is in teaching because he has to be. A snob with no substance, desperate to fit in but too abrasive to quite manage it, hence a very poor choice in his early adulthood that still affects him today. Right-handed.

 

Grin catalogues every piece of information he can glean from Professor Snape carefully, storing them away in his circus as his brother asks about the details of the school— Hogwarts. What an absurd, wonderful name for a place of learning.

 

Grin likes it already.

 

Hogwarts is based in Scotland. Due to the travel required of him, his brother will be given an international portkey— a mundane object enchanted to act as some kind of teleportation device, according to Professor Snape— so he can escort Grindell to the school train, which departs from London on September first, from Platform 9 ¾ in King’s Cross Station.

 

“The pocketwatch will drop you off in a secondary location, a Magical inn that acts as the entrance to Wizarding London,” Professor Snape says. “If it is amenable to you, I would meet you at four o’clock on August sixth to help you navigate your way through Diagon Alley and the purchase of the necessary school supplies.”

 

Patricks smiles.

 

“That sounds just fine,” he says. “Er— how do I use this, before I forget to ask.”

 

“Click the button three times,” Snape says. “Anyone who wishes to join you must also be touching the device. A finger will do. To return to your home, click it twice.”

 

“Excellent.” He shifts in his seat. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It is very common magic,” Professor Snape replies. “Likely the authors of your books didn’t feel the need to mention it.”

 

Patrick makes a noise of understanding, pretending he can’t hear the condescension in the other man’s tone.

 

“Amazing,” he says. “Do you need a written reply, by the way?”

 

Snape blinks.

 

“No,” he says. “Your agreement will do.”

 

“In which case, we agree.” Patrick glances at Grindell. “Right, Grinny?”

 

“That’s right.” The boy sets down his teacup and smiles at Professor Snape. “It’s been lovely talking to you, Professor Snape,” he says earnestly. “I’ll see you on the sixth of August.”

 

“We all will,” Angela adds.

 

Snape nods and pushes himself out of his chair.

 

“In which case, I will see you shortly,” he says. “Have a good afternoon.”

 

Angela walks him out, locking the door behind him, and returns, an excited smile on her face.

 

“Wait ‘til Pete hears we’ve got a bonafide wizard in the family,” she says, pressing a kiss to Grindell’s cheek. “A psychic and a wizard.”

 

“I’ll get you a pointy hat and we’ll have the whole set,” Patrick promises.

 

Angela laughs.

 

“I appreciate it,” she says. “But only if you get yourself a crystal ball to match.”

 

Patrick cringes.

 

“Crystal balls are impractical,” he says. “They’re always so… foggy.”


	5. Chapter 5

Portkey travel is… unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Luckily, a hunchback— who introduces himself as Tom the Landlord— already has tea and vanilla wafers waiting for them.

 

“It’s always bad for first timers,” he tells them kindly as he pours them their tea. “You get used to it, eventually.”

 

“Gee, I hope so,” Patrick says faintly, turning slightly green as he eyes his teacup.

 

“Professor Snape will be along shortly,” Tom says, glancing at Grindell. “I assume you’ll be going to Hogwarts this year?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Tom never went to Hogwarts, Grin can tell by the wistful bend in his mouth. “Excited?”

 

Grin gives him a shy smile.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s going to be different, but… good different, probably.”

 

“It’s always a bit of a shock for the Muggleborn kids,” Tom admits. “That’s kids born by non-Magic parents. But don’t worry— you get used to it pretty quick.”

 

The door to the backroom opens, revealing Professor Snape in what Grin assumes to be his normal wear. He looks a bit like a Vulcan, dressed in those long black robes. An ill-tempered, greasy-haired Vulcan.

 

“Messrs. Jane and Jane, Mrs. Jane,” he greets. “Good morning.”

 

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” Angela says with a smile. “How are you?”

 

“Fine,” he says curtly. “Have you remembered to bring your school list?”

 

“Right here,” Grindell says, tapping his vest pocket. “And I made a copy for my brother.”

 

“Just in case,” Patrick says, shrugging.

 

Snape arches an eyebrow.

 

“Excellent forethought,” he says. “Let’s hope that kind of thinking continues into your schoolwork. If you’re ready, we can leave now.”

 

Grindell hops up, Patrick and Angela moving just a moment behind.

 

“Lead on, Professor,” Patrick says, patting Grin’s head. He’d asked Angela to do French braids for him today, in an effort to look his best.

 

Snape seemed to cringe at the youngest Jane’s excitement, but his tone remained remarkably flat, regardless.

 

“Right this way.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Diagon Alley is an information overload. A lot of colors, a lot of sounds, a lot of strange people in strange clothes talking about strange things.

 

Grindell loves it, and one look at his brother and sister-in-law tells him they love it, too.

 

_ “I think I might come back while you’re at school,”  _ Patrick murmurs in Russian. _ “If only to get a better look.” _

 

“Me too,” Angela says. _ “That bookstore was something else.” _

 

Grindell doesn’t mind their teasing. He’s happy that they like it, that they can enjoy it with him. It would suck if they couldn’t.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Gringott’s is the Wizarding bank. It’s run by goblins, according to Snape, and is the safest place in Britain— save for perhaps Hogwarts, of course.

 

Grin rather likes the goblins. They have a bloodthirsty sense of humor, judging by the guard at the door and the poem inscribed in its wood. They seem like just the sort of people a person might want for an ally.

 

School supplies, according to the Professor, cost one thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars, which amounts to just under three hundred and twelve galleons. Just to be on the safe side, Patrick had two thousand dollars changed, in case the found something extra worth purchasing.

 

Grindell makes sure to be polite with goblins, asking questions about architecture and language and smiling brightly at each non-answer he’s given. Goblins are a secretive people, he realizes. 

 

That just makes them more fun.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Your potions ingredients are next,” Snape says without glancing at Grindell’s list. He’d been doing it all day. “The Apothecary is just there.”

 

“You teach Potions, don’t you?” Grindell asks, skipping up to walk alongside the professor. “You must be amazing at it.”

 

Snape twitches.

 

“I have a Mastery in the subject,” he says.

 

“I bet you’re a very strict teacher, then,” Grindell says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Amusement. That’s what crinkles the man’s rather large nose before he answers.

 

“If you wish to do well in my class you would do well to glance at your textbook before the beginning of the year,” he says. “Potion-making is a very delicate art, and I expect nothing but the best from my students.”

 

“Is it a bit like chemistry?” Grin asks. “I liked chemistry in school.”

 

More amusement.

 

“In a way,” he says. “To be a passable Potioneer, at the very least one must have intimate knowledge of the ingredients and their purpose in each potion. Otherwise it may lead to disaster.”

 

He opens the door, allowing the Janes to shuffle inside before closing the door behind him.

 

“Ah, Severus,” greets the man behind the counter. “Seeing off a new student?”

 

“Yes, Andrew,” he says with a short nod. “If I may present Mr. Grindell Jane, his brother Patrick, and his sister-in-law Angela. This is Andrew Serke, owner of the finest Apothecary in Diagon.”

 

Lie. A kind one, though, so Grindell keeps it to himself.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Patrick says, reaching out to shake the man’s gnarled hand.

 

The man flutters. Gay, probably. Patrick’s always gotten these sorts of reactions, the handsome bastard.

 

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” he says. “Patrick, was it? Muggle, I imagine?”

 

Muggle, Severus had explained, was the term for non-Magic people. It sounded a bit offensive, really, but then, Grin’s quite difficult to offend. All of them are.

 

“Uh, yes,” Patrick smiles harder. “I must say, wizarding style is something to behold. I feel rather underdressed.” He glances down at his dove gray suit for effect. Grindell wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to look his best.

 

“My good man, you’re a far sight better than most Muggle parents, nowadays,” Mr. Serke says. “Jeans, all of them, and not a skirt to be found among the ladies.” He nods at Angela, who’d worn an ankle-length summer dress patterned in daisies. “A certain sense of class must always be upheld, in public, and I must say, for a first-timer you three have done remarkably well.”

 

Severus interrupts before Patrick can say anything, though what he thought Patrick might say remains unclear.

 

“We’ll need the usual first year supplies, Andrew,” Severus says. “Quickly, if you please.”

 

“Of course, Severus.” Mr. Serke steps out from behind the counter and grabs a handful of small sacks, moving from basket to basket of ingredients and filling each sack with a different, unusual item.

 

“Are the first year supplies always the same in Potions?” Grindell asks curiously as he watches the man work.

 

“For the last seventy years,” Mr. Serke confirms. “It doesn’t really start to get unusual until seventh year— NEWTs, you know. The testing requires a bit more specialized work.”

 

Grindell hums, glancing at Patrick. Naturally, his brother understands immediately.

 

“Seems like a lot of work to have to individually handle every kid’s school list,” Patrick remarks casually. “I bet you could make a killing pre-packaging everything so it can just be picked up.”

 

Mr. Serke pauses, glancing up at Patrick.

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

The blond shrugs.

 

“These ingredients last the whole school year, right?” he says. “So none of it goes bad. You could pre-package everything into a nice little— what was it, cauldron?— and set them up at the front. A twenty percent mark-up and you’ve lessened your overall workload, made it easier for the kids, _ and  _ made a nice little profit on top of the usual sales.”

 

Mr. Serke hums thoughtfully.

 

“That is quite an idea,” he admits. “Something to look into for next year, certainly. I am getting on in years, you know— it’s quite a terror on my back.”

 

“I’d help,” Grindell volunteers immediately. “I’m good with numbers.”

 

Mr. Serke laughs.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, my boy,” he says. “But for now, I’ll manage.”

 

The thoughtful look doesn’t disappear, however, nor does Snape’s contemplative look when they finally pay for their purchases and leave the store.

 

Good, Grindell thinks, quietly high-fiving Patrick behind the man. He’s going to need to start making friends as soon as possible.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Snape leaves them outside of Ollivander’s Wand Shop, citing the long and intimate process as a reason to leave it just to family.

 

“I’ll be at Sonora’s Tea House when you’re finished,” he says, pointing across the street. “I’ll direct you back to the Leaky Cauldron when you’re finished.”

 

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Patrick says easily. “We can find our way back— besides, we want to take a closer look around. There’s a lot to see, after all.”

 

Snape looks rather pleased at the idea.

 

“If you’re certain,” he starts.

 

“I am.” Patrick gives him his best smile. “I’ve got a pretty good memory for places.”

 

Snape watches him a moment longer, then nods his head in acquiescence.

 

“In that case, good afternoon,” he says. “I will see you, Mr Jane, on the first of September.”

 

Grindell grins.

 

“Yes you will, Professor Snape,” he promises. “Have a nice day.”

 

Snape disappears into the crowd remarkably easily for a man as tall as he is, leaving the Janes to… to buy Grindell a wand.

 

Even knowing that it was coming, it still feels weird.

 

“Alright,” Patrick says, putting a hand on Grin’s shoulder. “Shall we?”


	6. Chapter 6

The owner of Ollivander’s is a tall, willowy man with white hair and strange, silver eyes. He’s a widower, he’s lost a child, and he’s staring at Grin like he wasn’t expecting him, which, he should have expected _ someone,  _ at least, considering it’s the school season.

 

“Um, hello,” Grin says tentatively. “You’re Mr. Ollivander, right?”

 

The man breaks out into a smile.

 

“I am,” he says. “And I must say, it is a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Potter. The rumors of your demise, it seems, have been greatly exaggerated.”

 

Grin blinks.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“It seems only yesterday your mother was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." Ollivander sighs. “You have her eyes, but your face— your face is all your fathers. And your hair, of course. He never quite managed to tame it as well as you, however.”

 

Grin knows there isn’t much to say about how he ended up in Uncle Alex— really Patrick’s— care, but he knows three things about his old family. One, the woman who brought him to the carnival was named Tuney. Two, she was English. Three, his mother’s name was Lily.

 

“Lily,” he says, glancing at Patrick. “My mother’s name was Lily… Potter?”

 

“Evans, when I first met her,” Ollivander says. “But after she married your father she took his name, of course. James’s wand, of course, was mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. He was quite a prodigy in the subject.”

 

James and Lily Potter.

 

“Why are there rumors of my demise?” Grin asks as Patrick steps closer. “I— I’m sorry, but I never knew my parents. I just got here, actually— to the Wizarding World, I mean.”

 

Ollivander looks between him and Patrick, an odd look forming on his face before being swept away by realization.

 

“You don’t know,” he says a little mournfully. “You’re not aware— well, of course not, you must have been raised in the Muggle world.” He glances at Angela. “Ma’am, if you could be a dear and turn the shop sign to closed, if you please?”

 

Angela obeys, fumbling slightly as she flips the heavy oak sign over.

 

“Excellent.” Mr. Ollivander turns back to Grindell. “My boy, what is your name?”

 

“Grindell Ares Jane,” he says. “And this is my brother Patrick, and his wife Angela.”

 

“Grin was brought to my family by an aunt,” Patrick says, eyeing the man carefully. “She didn’t give us any details as to his name or… or why he was brought to us.”

 

Ollivander sighs unhappily.

 

“Come into the back room,” he says, flicking a wand at the door behind the counter. “It seems there’s an important conversation to be had, and the front of my shop is hardly the place to do it.”

 

Grindell looks at Patrick, uncertain.

 

“He’s famous, isn’t he?” Patrick says. “I can read it all over your face.”

 

Ollivander’s mouth purses.

 

“Come into the back room,” he says again. “We’ll straighten everything out.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Magic, it seems, doesn’t mean people are untouched by war. It makes sense, Grin supposes, considering that Magical people are still people, and people are stupid.

 

“So his parents were killed by a would-be dictator,” Angela says slowly. “A powerful, crazy, evil dictator, and when the guy vanished, they assumed that _ Grin  _ was the one responsible?”

 

“That’s correct, yes.”

 

“That’s just dumb,” Angela says flatly. “Grin was a _ baby.  _ Babies don’t do anything but eat and sleep and cry.”

 

“Many people agree with you,” Ollivander says, mouth quirking. “But many more believe that he vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, survived the Killing Curse— something that has never happened— and was unharmed save for a scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt. There are volumes dedicated to the subject.”

 

“Have I been getting royalties?” Grin asks. Patrick snorts.

 

Ollivander blinks.

 

“I highly doubt it,” he says. “But if you were to reclaim the name Harry Potter, it would be a simple matter of hiring a solicitor to collect a fee from each publisher who has books on the subject.”

 

“Almost makes me want to reclaim it,” Grin mutters. Aloud, he says, “I’m not going to. I’m a Jane. I’m Grindell Jane, and that’s who I’m always going to be.”

 

Ollivander nods agreeably.

 

“Your Hogwarts letter says as much,” he says, nodding at the envelope on the desk. “So long as you don’t claim the Potter vaults, this information can stay hidden. I have no interest in uprooting what seems to be a happy boy with a good family. But you must be aware of such things. Blood is everything, in the Wizarding world. The entire war was based upon Pureblood ideals.”

 

Another stupid thing about the Wizarding world, honestly. Oh, well. Grin’s sure he can use it to his advantage if he thinks hard enough.

 

“I don’t want anyone to know,” he says. “We got rid of my scar, and Janes are all I need. The goblins can keep my stupid gold.”

 

“Of course,” Ollivander agrees. “Do you have any other questions regarding the subject?”

 

“Just one,” Patrick says. “What’s his name? The guy who tried to kill my little brother.”

 

Ollivander’s eyes widen slightly.

 

“We do not speak his name,” he says. “A leftover from the war— it’s cursed.”

 

Patrick thinks about this.

 

“Well, can you write it down?” he asks.

 

“...” Ollivander’s lips purse. “I could, I suppose.”

 

He reaches into a drawer, bringing out a quill and ink. His handwriting is sharp and neat, calligraphy at its finest.

 

They all lean forward to read it. Angela laughs first.

 

“Your Dark Lord sucks at French,” she says. “His name sounds like a fourteen year-old girl in her rebellious phase.”

 

Flight of Death—  _ Voldemort. _ God, that’s just… that’s just really bad.

 

“Perhaps,” Ollivander admits a little dryly. “But I suppose a steady grasp of the French language isn’t exactly necessary when your goal is to murder each and every Muggleborn man, woman, and child in Britain.”

 

They sober.

 

“No, I suppose not,” she agrees. “Sorry.”

 

Ollivander waves a hand, tapping his wand to the paper and setting it aflame.

 

“It’s no matter,” he says. “Perhaps we ought to move on to the real reason you’re here, young Mr. Jane. A wand.”

 

A thrill courses through Grindell’s spine.

 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

When they’re done here, they’re going to go back to the bookstore— Flourish and Blott’s. They’re going to buy every book on etiquette and culture and blood purity and _ Harry Potter,  _ and they’re going to go home and learn.

 

Grindell, it seems, is woefully prepared for this world.

 

He’s going to rectify that.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Maple and dragon heartstring, fifteen inches. Springy. Good for travellers and adventurers. Excellent for divination and love spells.

 

The wand is burning a hole in the bottom of Grin’s bag, but he can’t use it— not until he’s at Hogwarts. The Trace, he’s been told, is put on every British wand belonging to an underage wizard. Until it’s legal for him to practice magic unsupervised, he’s not to use it outside of school grounds.

 

Grindell’s going to find a way around that eventually, but for now, he’ll keep his peace.

 

Patrick’s worried about him, he can see it quite plainly. The news of his parents’ probably gory death isn’t something Grin can just bounce back from, after all, and he’s been a bit somber since leaving Ollivander’s.

 

“So I’m thinking,” Patrick says, stopping in front of a shop bearing the sign ‘Magical Menagerie’. “Your birthday— we know when it is, now.”

 

“My anniversary’s November sixth,” Grindell says sharply.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Patrick says. “And that’s when you get your birthday presents. But the magic recognizes your birthday anyway. So we know when it is.”

 

“... I guess.”

 

“You’re not getting any other presents until November,” Patrick says. “But how about a little something in celebration of you getting your Hogwarts letter.”

 

Grin looks at the menagerie, then back at his brother.

 

“Wait, you’re serious?” he asks. “I can get a pet?”

 

“Yeah, why not?” Patrick smiles. “You could do with some company while we’re in Sacramento, right?”

 

Grin stares at his brother, then bolts into the pet shop before he can change his mind. A pet, he can have a _ pet. _

 

“I knew that would cheer him up,” Patrick remarks when Angela arches an eyebrow at him.

 

“He’s got you wrapped around his little finger,” she says.

 

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ollivander's initial observations are almost verbatim from the Sorcerer's Stone. I figured that, since he recognizes everybody who has Magical parents, nothing would change in regards to Harry's visit despite a certain lack of scar. As for why no one else noticed that he clearly looks like James, I put that down to long hair and a Muggle escort. Magicals are kind of oblivious if they don't see exactly what they expect, you know?


	7. Chapter 7

“Owls are good for post, of course,” the witch tells Grindell as she walks him through the aisles. “Fast as anything, provided you live in Britain— which I’m assuming you don’t.”

 

Grindell shakes his head.

 

“California,” he says. “America.”

 

The woman clicks her tongue.

 

“Your parents, they’re Muggles?” she says.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Then you’re better off getting yourselves a set of post boxes,” she says. “Stanislaw’s Stationary three doors down makes them. It’s an adapted Vanishing Charm, I think, like the ones on Vanishing Cabinets. Put something inside one and shut the lid, and it’ll appear in the other. Handy, really, especially for that kind of distance.”

 

“Sounds like,” Angela says. She turns to Patrick. “I can run down and pick some up while you guys peruse, if you want. I have a feeling you’ll be in here a while.”

 

Grindell smiles sheepishly at his brother, who chuckles.

 

“That sounds fine,” he says, reaching into the small pouch he’d been given at the bank and handing her a handful of gold. “See you in a little bit?”

 

Angela pecks him on the cheek.

 

“Of course,” she says. “You’ve got the Portkey.”

 

Laughing at Patrick’s wounded look, she disappears out into the street, leaving Grindell and Patrick to themselves.

 

“I’d like a cat, I think,” Grindell says after a moment. “Can I see the cats?”

 

“Just down here, dearie,” the woman says. “They like to hang around the snakes— they like the Heating Charms I put on the tanks.”

 

“There’s snakes here?”

 

“Of course,” she says, grinning at his surprise. “Popular among ex-Slytherins, you know— I’ve got three myself, at home.”

 

“Slytherin?”

 

“A Hogwarts house,” she supplies. “There’s four of them— Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. You get sorted according to potential. Slytherin— my alma mater— is for the cunning and ambitious. Great place to start making connections, if you’re into that sort of thing. Gryffindor’s where all the meatheads go… sorry, we’ve got a bit of a rivalry with Gryffindors.” She gives him a smile. “They’re ‘the brave’. Lots of sports stars, Aurors— that’s our law enforcement— cursebreakers, that sort of thing. If the activity can kill you, they’ll try it. Then there’s Hufflepuff. They’re known for being loyal, and kind of… people don’t respect Hufflepuffs much, really, but they’re good folk. All sorts of interesting skills mixed in with Hufflepuffs. And then there’s Ravenclaw. That’s where the bookworms go.”

 

Grin hums.

 

“And you were in the cunning house,” he says.

 

“Indeed I was,” she says. “It was a good time, really. You become very socially aware in that house— everybody knows everything, and everybody’s got a secret to be found out. All in all, very interesting.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grin says with a smile. “Oh, kitties!”

 

The dozen or so cats barely look up at the exclamation, lounging against the warm glass tanks with their eyes half-closed and their tails swishing.

 

“You can pick them up if you like,” the witch says. “They’re all quite friendly.”

 

Grindell hums and offers his hand to a white longhair to sniff. She does so, pressing her face against his hand and purring loudly.

 

_ “She’s going to shit in your shoes,”  _ a quiet voice warns. _ “Don’t take her, take the other one.” _

 

The white cat bats at the tank, claws clicking against the glass. Clearly, she’d heard whoever had spoken.

 

Frowning, Grindell peers into the tank. A cornsnake, not much thicker than a pencil and a brilliant, spotted orange.

 

“Was that you?” he asks.

 

The snake raises its head, staring curiously at Grin through the glass.

 

_ “You heard me?”  _ he asks. _ “Little human-fucker heard me?” _

 

“You have a very dirty mouth,” Grindell informs the snake. “You should work on that.”

 

“Grin,” Patrick says slowly. “Why are you hissing at the snakes?”

 

“He’s having a conversation,” the witch says, voice filled with awe. “You’re a _ parselmouth.” _

 

“Hmm? What’s that mean?”

 

“Parselmouths are people who can talk to snakes,” she says. “It’s a magical gift— no one knows how it works. _ Salazar Slytherin  _ was a parselmouth.”

 

That’s probably the person Slytherin house was named after. That’s kind of cool.

 

Grin looks over at Patrick.

 

“I can be a snake charmer,” he says. “Mrs. Crake would be out of a job.” Mrs. Crake’s act in the carnival was the snake queen, though she normally pulled the teeth of the poisonous ones.

 

“Best to keep it to yourself, then,” Patrick says. “We can’t have you putting family out of business, after all.”

 

“You have to take the snake,” the witch says, staring wildly between Grindell and the tank. “You— don’t bother with a cat, take the snake. I’ll give it to you for free, even.”

 

“I don’t think—” Patrick starts.

 

“A snake’ll open doors for you,” she interrupts, looking at Grindell. “No matter what house you get into. A Muggleborn like you’s going to need those connections, unless you want to be working in a pet shop like me.” The woman straightens. “The only reason I even have this job is because I was a Slytherin and had favors to use up. If you’re a parselmouth and people _ know… _ trust me, it’ll help you later on in life.”

 

Grindell glances at Patrick.

 

_ “What do you think?” _ he asks in Russian.

 

_ “... I’m not sure,”  _ Patrick says.  _ “It’s easier to scam rich people, though, and powerful people are usually rich. Do you want a snake, though?” _

 

Grindell glances at the snake, who’s complaining rather loudly about being ignored by the human.

 

_ “He’s funny,”  _ he admits.

 

Patrick shrugs.

 

_ “Okay, then,”  _ he says in English. “Ah, we’ll take him.”

 

The woman smiles brightly.

 

“Excellent,” she says. “I’ll get everything ready for you, alright? Just fish him out of the tank and bring him to the front.”

 

Grindell looks at the snake.

 

“I’ll be taking you with me,” he says. “If you want.”

 

_ “Of course you will, monkey-dick,”  _ the snake says, drawing himself up. _ “I’m the most interesting thing that’s happened to you all day, I bet.” _

 

“Well, you’ve certainly come close,” Grin mutters, flipping open the top of the tank and sticking his hand inside. “Climb aboard, then.”

 

_ “You’re warm,”  _ the snake informs him, slithering up into his sleeve. _ “I think I’ll like you well enough, even if you are smelly.” _

 

“Gee, thanks.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“So, why didn’t we catch on that he could talk to snakes before?” Angela asks once they’re back home. “I mean, Mrs. Crake must have had dozens slithering around her trailer.”

 

“Guess they didn’t have anything to say,” Patrick says, shrugging. “Grin certainly didn’t notice he was hissing at them, so who knows?”

 

He glances over at his little brother, asleep on the big leather couch in the corner of the living room under a quilt stolen from Patrick’s bed. His snake— dubbed Floyd, after the band— is curled up on his stomach, apparently tired from his evening meal.

 

Angela shakes her head.

 

“I hope this doesn’t cause him problems,” she says. “Snakes scare people, and for a little kid to have a snake at school.”

 

Patrick shrugs.

 

“Boys think snakes are cool,” he says. “He’s just gonna be a little rebel kid, that’s all.”

 

“Will they even let him in with it?”

 

“No idea,” Patrick says. “But I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Grinny’s always been good with that sort of thing.”

 

Angela knows. She’s dug more butterfly knives out of his schoolbag than she reasonably should have had to.

 

“Still,” she says. “I’ve been reading this stuff, Pat, and wizards are weird about snakes. They think they’re evil.”

 

“Then why are snakes a mascot for a whole house?” he asks. “Are we meant to assume that all those kids are evil?”

 

Angela shrugs.

 

“I’m getting the feeling that we’re supposed to.”

 

“Well, that’s just silly,” Patrick says. “He’ll be fine, Floyd’ll be fine, and we’ll be fine.”

 

“I know we’ll be fine,” Angela says.

 

“Well, you’re nervous,” Patrick points out. “It’s written all over your face. You’re scared that he’s not going to be close to us, right? That he’s going to get into trouble without us around. You shouldn’t be— he’s a smart kid.”

 

Angela sighs.

 

“I know, Pat, but…” she glances over at the couch. “He’s been with us for so long. It’s you, me, and Grindell. That’s how it’s been since I was what, seventeen? Earlier, if you count our carny days.”

 

“I know,” Patrick says, rubbing her back gently. “But we knew this was coming. Besides, Grin’s going to grow up sooner or later. He’s not going to want us around all the time.”

 

Angela arches an eyebrow.

 

“You sure about that?” she says, jerking her chin at Grindell. Patrick sees it, of course, the way his brother has the fabric of the blanket tucked under his nose. He’s already asked to take it to school, to keep the smell of home with him when he’s so far away.

 

The thought makes Patrick’s heart ache.

 

“He’s eleven,” he says softly. “He’s young. He’ll bounce back quicker than we’ll be able to see, and all he’ll be able to talk about are his friends from school and his crazy magic classes.”

 

She sighs.

 

“You’re right, obviously,” she says. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

 

She’s right, it doesn’t, but Patrick’s going to have to deal with it. That’s just the way of the world.


	8. Chapter 8

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Patrick murmurs into Grindell’s hair. “Don’t get into any trouble you can’t get out of.”

 

Grindell swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s never been away from his brother so long and yeah, he was excited, but the nervousness is starting to set in.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he promises, words muffled by Patrick’s vest. “Promise.”

 

“Liar.”

 

Grindell laughs, pulling away reluctantly.

 

“I better get on the train,” he says, reaching over to give Angela a final hug. “I’ll see you guys at Christmas, okay?”

 

“Definitely,” Angela agrees, kissing his cheek. “Write us when you get there, okay? I wanna know which house you’re sorted into.”

 

Grindell nods.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I… Bye, Patty. Annie.”

 

“We’ll see you soon,” Patrick promises.

 

Grindell doesn’t say anymore, because he can’t, but… but Patrick knows. His brother always knows.

 

So, he keeps his head down, picks up his trunk (a clunky, probably unnecessary purchase), and boards the train. He takes the first empty compartment he can find, throws his trunk up into overhead, and curls up into the corner by the window with his newest read—  _ Etiquette for the Most Pure and Noble. _

 

With any luck, nobody’ll bother him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


There’s a knock on his compartment door not ten minutes later, and a painfully handsome boy peers in.

 

“Hello,” the boy greets. “Do you mind company? The other compartments seem a bit crowded.”

 

Grindell pauses, taking the information as quickly as it comes.

 

Straight-backed, careful, upper-class English with a hint of an Italian accent. Some kind of African descent, but mixed over time, good quality clothing, but previously unworn. Either the boy normally wears robes or his parents made a point to buy him something nice to wear on the train. Regardless, the pink button down suits him rather well.

 

“Please,” Grin says, gesturing at the empty seat across from him. “Make yourself at home.”

 

The boy smiles, revealing unusually sharp canines.

 

“Thanks very much,” he says, shuffling into the compartment. He holds out his free hand to shake. “I’m Blaise Zabini.”

 

Grin reaches out to shake.

 

“Grindell Jane,” he says. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

 

Blaise nods, glancing at the book in Grin’s lap.

 

“A Muggleborn with an interest in Magical social standards,” he says. “That doesn’t often happen, I understand.”

 

“Nobody told me there were books on the subject,” Grin admits. “Personal curiosity and luck had me find this. It’s proved to be quite informative. How did you know I was a Muggleborn?”

 

Blaise shrugs, tossing the trunk into the overhead too easily to be natural and taking the seat opposite him.

 

“A few reasons,” he says. “For one, Magical families rarely leave the country, and you have an American accent. For another, there are no old families by the name of Jane. For a third, you wouldn’t be reading about etiquette if you were anything else.”

 

Grin smiles inwardly. He’s clever, this Zabini. Grin _ loves  _ clever people.

 

“You’re a Pureblood, I imagine,” Grindell says after a moment. “Or at least raised like one.”

 

“The first,” Blaise agrees. “The Zabinis aren’t too well known in Britain. We have a stronger presence in southern Italy.”

 

“Never been,” Grin admits. “I heard it’s lovely, though.”

 

“It is,” Blaise says. “How about you? You’re American, obviously.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Grin shifts slightly, crossing his legs. “I’m from California, on the west coast. Sacramento, to be exact.”

 

“Sacramento?” Blaise clicks his tongue. “I’ve never had the pleasure. I’ve been to San Francisco a few times with my mother, and Los Angeles.”

 

“Pretty cities, to be sure,” Grindell says. “But I like Sacramento. It’s a pretty quiet place.”

 

Blaise chuckles.

 

“I suppose every hometown has its charms,” he says. “How did you get to the platform, if I may ask?”

 

“Portkey,” Grindell says. “Professor Snape supplied my brother with one when he brought me my Hogwarts letter.”

 

“Professor Snape?” Blaise asks, surprised. “The Head of Slytherin House?”

 

“Mmm… yup,” Grin says. Snape hadn’t mentioned anything like that.

 

“That must have been intense,” Blaise says. “I’ve heard he’s got a bit of a stick up his arse.”

 

Grindell lets out a startled laugh.

 

“Ah, he seemed alright,” he says. “Not much for kids, but he’s probably a good teacher, provided you do your reading.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Blaise glances out the compartment door. “Oh, looks like we’re getting company.”

 

There’s a sudden jolt as the train begins to move, and whoever it was about to knock on the compartment door topples in.

 

“Ah, hell!” The boy yelps in a thick Irish accent. “Sorry, sorry—”

 

“It’s no problem,” Grin says, reaching to help the boy up. “You alright?”

 

“Fine, fine,” the boy brushes off his touch. “Thanks. Er… mind if I stay here? Since the train’s moving, I figure it’s probably best to just sit tight.”

 

Grindell glances at Blaise, who shrugs.

 

“Yeah, of course,” he says.

 

“Thanks.” The boy doesn’t bother putting his duffle— a duffle, so probably a Muggle— overhead, instead shoving it behind his back. “The name’s Turner, by the way. Lark Turner.”

 

“Grindell Jane,” Grin says, then, as per Wizarding etiquette, he introduces Blaise. “That’s Blaise Zabini.”

 

Lark nods amiably at both of them.

 

“Hey,” he says. “So, magic. Who knew, eh?”

 

“I did,” Blaise says snidely.

 

“Me too,” Grin agrees. “But that’s because I had a relative with some books.”

 

“Lucky bastards,” Lark says, ignoring Blaise’s tone. “It came out of nowhere, for me. My family’s all normal people— well, travellers, but none of them are _ real  _ magic.”

 

“Travellers?” Grindell asks. “Like gypsies, then?”

 

“That’s not a nice word to use,” Lark informs him. “But yeah, a bit. My family runs a travelling fair through Great Britain and France. Ferris Wheels and candy floss and clowns… you know how it goes.”

 

“Wait,” Grindell says, frowning thoughtfully. “You’re not related to Garrett Turner, are you? Of the Turner Travelling Show?”

 

“The very same,” Lark says, nodding. “He’s my uncle.”

 

Grindell smiles brightly.

 

“My family’s a part of the Southwestern circuit in America,” he says. “Ever heard of a guy called Pete Barsocky? He’s got an elephant called Daisy, travels with the Bachman’s Carnival of Wonders?”

 

Lark blinks.

 

“Uncle Pete’s my Mum’s cousin,” he says. “You— really? Well, damn. I didn’t think I’d be meeting family in this world. Jane, you said?”

 

Grindell nods.

 

“My brother and I left the show,” he says. “He’s a psychic.”

 

“Once a boy wonder, always a boy wonder,” Lark says, grinning. “What about you, have you got the gift?”

 

“Not like he does, but…” Grindell shrugs, glancing at Blaise’s intrigued expression. “I’m working on it.”

 

“What do you mean by psychic?” Blaise asks, tilting his head curiously to one side. “Like a seer?”

 

“No, not quite.” Lark pulls a leg up onto the seat. “He can’t tell you the future, exactly, but if you want him to, I dunno, contact the dead or read minds, he’s probably the one to talk to. Right, Jane?”

 

Lark winks at Grindell, who hurries to add,

 

“I’m not as good as my brother, yet. I still need practice.”

 

“But you still have the skill,” Blaise says, impressed. “An ability like that can make you many friends, if the knowledge is applied appropriately.”

 

There’s no question as to the validity of his abilities, just calm acceptance. Have these people never heard of a charlatan before? Well, whatever. It’ll probably just make Grindell’s life easier. His kind of skills usually do, nowadays.

 

Lark is a cousin, in a way, an only child and a carny. Probably isn’t a part of the show, but he’s got knowledge, and that in and of itself is priceless. Grindell had been worried about it, for all that he didn’t mention it to Patrick. Being alone in this big new world, his brother halfway across the world and essentially useless at a distance, was a scary thought.

 

Grin wonders if Lark would be willing to help if he finds a particularly juicy scam to run.


End file.
